


everything you feel is good

by lycanthropology (deanlosechester)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Georgie Denbrough, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Cat Cafés, F/M, Georgie Denbrough Lives, M/M, Mentioned Sonia Kaspbrak, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Therapy, sonia kaspbrak is in jail where she BELONGS, texan richie tozier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlosechester/pseuds/lycanthropology
Summary: “Purrsonal Space Cat Cafe, located in the eastern part of Chicago, was opened in 2016 by Richie Tozier and his childhood friend Ben Hanscom. ... Purrsonal Space works in conjunction with PAWS Chicago to get their cats adopted out to loving, happy homes. Since their opening, Purrsonal Space has placed over 100 cats with forever families.”--In which Eddie tries to overcome many different anxieties by spending time at Richie Tozier's cat cafe.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 22
Kudos: 88





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> BOY HOWDY am I anxious to be here. A while back I saw a twitter thread (I couldn't track it down) about Eddie seeing Richie through the window of a cat cafe, and it lived in my brain rent free until I couldn't take it anymore and I decided to make it happen.
> 
> This is my first long-form fic in five years, and I'm frankly terrified, but it's become very personal to me and I hope you like it.
> 
> Thank u JD (butiamhome) for being my sounding board and the Spagheddie to my Reechie.
> 
> I'm going to try? And update on Sundays, but I'm a teacher and school starts soon, so it may end up being pushed to every other Sunday if I get too busy!

Eddie hated Thursdays.

He always stayed late on Thursdays because Jeremy down the hall was a FUCKING idiot and didn’t know what he was doing, like, ever, so Eddie had to go through his reports and make sure everything was input correctly. 

Thursdays were also staff potluck days once a month, which Eddie hated because Gladys in HR always brought the same jello salad from 1978 and nobody ate it and she got mad. None of his coworkers (himself included) had the heart to tell the old bat that no one has eaten jello salad since like, fucking Taft was president or whatever, and no one’s enjoyed it since EVER, so she always just sat in the corner and glared at everyone as they pointedly ignored the wobbly monstrosity in the break room. It gave Eddie flashbacks to his childhood and his mother, ever-present, forcing him to eat bite after bite of some weird, gelatinous creation. He shuddered as he walked. Who decided that putting cabbage, pineapple, and orange flavored jello together was a good thing? Did some vengeful god decide that it should exist only to torture him, poor Eddie Kaspbrak?

So Eddie was tired, hungry, and incredibly grumpy as he made his way down the block towards his apartment. He knew the only thing waiting there would be sad Chinese leftovers in the fridge. 

Eddie sighed, raking a hand through his hair and turning up the volume on the podcast he was listening to in an attempt to drown out his thoughts. He wasn’t lonely, not really—he had friends to invest his time in. It was just hard at night sometimes after a long day, returning to an empty apartment and having no one to talk to. He didn’t want to bother Mike and Bill with his problems all the time. That’s what his therapist was for. He didn’t pay out the ass to meet with Dr. Andros weekly just to bug his friends whenever he was sad. 

Okay, maybe he _was_ lonely. If he cried to love songs at night in his bed that was between himself, God, and Spotify. 

Lost in thought and unable to focus, Eddie switched over to music instead of a podcast. He just didn’t have the attention span to listen to Henry Zebrowski yell about aliens anymore. He was just pressing shuffle on his liked songs when he tripped over a large sandwich board that had fallen over on the sidewalk. 

“FUCKING SHIT!” he yelled, windmilling his arms to try and regain his balance before he ate shit on the pavement. He caught himself and looked around to make sure that no one was watching. He was, blessedly, alone. 

The least he could do was pick the sign back up, he thought, and bent down to grab one side of the board. 

_Purrsonal Space Cat Cafe,_ the sign read. 

“Purrsonal—what the fuck, what the fuck even is a cat cafe,” Eddie mumbled to himself, setting the board back up and out of the way of future pedestrians. “That canNOT be hygienic.”

He peered into the windows of the cafe, taking stock of the cat-themed posters and well-worn furniture. Cat trees were spread around the place, and there was a giant bean bag chair near the window. 

The place wasn’t open—according to the hours on the window, they closed an hour ago at 5—but the lights were still on and there was someone inside at the counter.

The man’s back was turned, but Eddie could tell he was tall, and his shoulders were—wow, his shoulders sure were broad, huh. Eddie shook himself out of it. _It’s not polite or appropriate to ogle strangers through a window, you freak,_ he thought.

The guy inside the cafe was talking animatedly to a small orange kitten that was sitting on the counter, watching him intently. Who the fuck does that? What the fuck kind of kitten just watches? Don’t kittens, like, run around and play and shit?

Eddie didn’t know shit about cats.

He squinted and watched for a moment as the man picked up the kitten and pressed their noses together. _What the fuck,_ Eddie thought, _that shouldn’t be cute. It’s also—fuck that’s kinda gross, right? Don’t cats lick their own butts?_

The man then carried the kitten through a door in the back of the building and out of sight, still talking to the cat the whole time. Eddie wished he could have heard what he was saying . 

Eddie sighed and continued walking towards his apartment, humming along to his music. He couldn’t stop thinking about the guy in the window of the cafe. If he closed his eyes he could see the man’s brown curls and thick glasses, his fucking! Shoulders! He felt so stupid for mooning over a thirty-second glimpse of a dude through a store window.

The music cut off as his phone vibrated, signaling an incoming call. 

_Big Bill,_ the display read.

“Hello,” Eddie said.

_“Hey, Eddie!”_ Bill replied. His voice was light, happy. No trace of the stutter. It was a good day, then. _“Do you have any dinner plans?”_

Eddie thought of his impending depression meal of leftover lo mein and crab rangoons. “Nope.”

_“Good. You’re coming over. Mike’s making lasagna just the way you like it.”_

“With the ricotta?” Eddie asked hopefully.

Bill’s laugh made Eddie’s earbuds vibrate. _“Yeah, Eddie, with the ricotta. Got any wine at home?”_

“Yeah, man. I’m, like, a minute away from my place. I can be over in about 20, if that’s okay?”

Bill’s _mmhmm_ confirmed it, and they said their goodbyes. Eddie felt a little better about his night already. He walked a little faster, his steps felt a little lighter. He hummed as he approached his apartment building. 

Bill had been Eddie’s best friend since they were six years old, in first grade back in Maine. Some jerk kid was making fun of Bill’s stutter—it was way worse back then—and Eddie punched that jackoff square in the nose. His mom came to the school ranting and raving about classroom safety, why wasn’t the teacher monitoring them, she was going to sue, but Eddie and Bill just sat hand-in-hand on the benches outside the principal’s office, whispering and giggling. They’d been inseparable ever since.

Eddie had always been somewhat reserved, but protecting Bill brought out the fire in him. Over the years kids learned not to fuck with Bill Denbrough because Eddie Kaspbrak fought, and he fought dirty. He was all nails and teeth, biting and clawing at any perceived threat. He’d protect Bill with his life. He’d earned more than enough black eyes and bloody noses to prove it.

His mother hated Bill, said he was the reason that her Eddie was in danger all the time, and as they got older and Eddie began to fight back against Sonia’s abuse, she blamed Bill for “poisoning” him against her. Eventually, he realised she was the poison. One night, after a hug from Bill’s mom resulted in tears, Eddie broke down and told Bill’s parents everything. They contacted Maine Child Protective Services immediately, called their lawyer, and Bill’s father took him to his house to get his things.

Three months later, Sonia Kaspbrak was diagnosed with Munchausen’s Syndrome By Proxy while the child abuse trial was in progress. The whole ordeal was a blur, honestly—Eddie spent most of the trial trying to astral project out of his body or something, because if he thought too hard about how everything his mother told him was a lie, he started to panic. 

There were testimonies by teachers outlining Sonia’s strict health requirements in the classroom. Bill’s mother testified about the day after Bill’s eighth birthday party where Sonia showed up red in the face and screaming that she’d tried to risk her baby’s life by giving him a slice of pecan pie. Then the lawyer explained to the judge that Eddie’s mother had taken him to 18 different doctors trying to get him treated for hemophilia, which he did not have. 

Doctor after doctor took the stand to explain the many medications Eddie was taking and how most of them were bullshit, and how the ones that weren’t caused real health problems that his mother would then get diagnosed and treated. 

Sonia cried intermittently throughout the entire process. Eddie knew she was trying to appeal to his sympathies, but by then, he didn’t give a shit. The social workers had already gently explained that what his mother did wasn’t love, it was abuse. He started seeing a court-appointed therapist, who told him the same thing and helped him process his feelings. He’d already shut her out of his heart forever.

He didn’t shed a single tear when she was sentenced to 27 years in prison for felony child abuse and endangerment. She wailed as she was handcuffed and removed from the courtroom. Bill’s mom hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek and told him he was her son now.

Eddie moved out of the Kaspbrak house when he was 17 and lived in the apartment above the Denbrough’s garage until graduation. Then he and Bill packed up and moved halfway across the country to Chicago so Eddie could go to college and Bill could start his writing career. 

Bill had always been a talented writer. Eddie envied him—he never felt like he had a gift that was _his._ He was decent at quite a few things; he could play the piano and guitar fairly well, he could doodle a bit, and he could sing some. He’d taken up photography a few years back. But he had no real artistic purpose. He was good with numbers, though, so he ended up a risk analyst for an insurance firm in Chicago while Bill wrote and sold book after book. 

They met Mike their second year in Chicago, at the library. He worked part-time as an assistant librarian and Eddie watched Bill fall in love with him over stacks of books and whispered conversations. Bill’s last relationship, with his ex Audra, had ended badly when they left Maine. Eddie was happy for him. Mike was solid and kind, and so full of love that it made Eddie’s heart ache. He didn’t expect to be welcomed into their lives the way he was. They never made him feel like a third wheel. 

“You’re my b-brother, Eddie,” Bill had said once. “You’ll always be welcome.”

He knew this, of course—after everything Bill’s parents had done for him, all the Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas presents over the last 17 years since his mother’s imprisonment, he knew he was family. But sometimes he needed a little reminding that he wasn’t alone.

So they had weekly (sometimes biweekly) dinners together. Mike normally cooked because Bill had the kitchen sense of a 12-year-old and Eddie was usually too tired, although he would sometimes prepare something or at least help Mike in the kitchen. They’d drink wine and play board games and laugh. It was the brightest part of any week for Eddie, especially when there was lasagna involved. Mike’s lasagna could bring about world peace, it was that good. 

That first mom-free year was eye-opening for Eddie in terms of food. He’d had so many dietary restrictions at home and wasn’t sure which were real and which were imagined. Before, Bill’s mom made sure to cook dinners that included foods Eddie had mentioned eating at home. Afterwards, she tried to encourage him to branch out more. The first time she tried to serve him a cheeseburger he had a panic attack so bad he couldn’t feel his skin. He didn’t eat anything but crackers for two days. 

Mrs. Denbrough called his therapist, Dr. Andros, then, and he encouraged Eddie to see an allergist to get tested and find out what—if anything—he was actually allergic to. 

Eddie remembered sitting in the waiting room chewing on the skin around his cuticles until it bled. He bounced his leg so much it knocked Mrs. Denbrough’s purse off of her lap, and she’d put her hand on his knee to still him. She didn’t let him apologize for it. Then, in the exam room, he clenched his eyes shut as the allergist placed drop after drop of potentially dangerous substances on his back. Bill held his hand the whole time. Then they waited for the results.

Nothing.

Eddie wasn’t allergic to a single fucking thing. Not eggs, not gluten, not soy, or cashews, dogs, or fucking _grass._ He wasn’t allergic to a single thing. The test results reinforced the fact that his mother had lied to him so much, about everything. 

After they read the results, Eddie began to cry. He cried for hours, off-and-on, mourning the years wasted by his mother’s need for control. Then he ate an entire pepperoni pizza and threw up all over the back porch. Then he cried again. Then he _laughed._

Even then, it took a few years for him to get over some of his food fears and insecurities. He’d spent the first 17 years of his life in a toxic relationship with food, and it took a while to work through it. At 33 he was healthy, ate well, and didn’t count calories like he did when he was 19. He had burgers and pizza and chicken alfredo whenever he wanted. He also ate salads and veggies. And he didn’t feel anxious about it anymore.

If he thought about it too hard he realized he’d just taken his food anxiety and shoved it into almost every other aspect of his life, but that was neither here nor there. He was working on it, albeit slowly and begrudgingly. 

Eddie took a quick shower and changed clothes before heading back outside to catch the train to Bill and Mike’s place. It was around 6:45, and the train was packed with people heading home after a long day at work. He wondered, idly, if the guy he saw in the window of that cat cafe—what was it called again, _Purrsonal Space?_ —was on the train. Would he be reading a book? Listening to music, like Eddie? What music would he listen to? Was he going home to a wife, husband, lover? 

He pressed his head to the window and gazed out at the streets of Chicago, sighing. He felt incredibly pathetic for daydreaming about someone he only saw for a minute. What could he say? He had a Thing for broad shoulders and goofy smiles. 

Eddie pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the Google Chrome app to google _Purrsonal Space cat cafe._ He pressed on the _website_ button and bit his lip as he waited for the site to open.

Because this was his life, they went through a tunnel, and the damn page wouldn’t load.

“Come on, come _on,_ ” Eddie muttered, careful to not be too loud since he was in the quiet car. He refreshed the page over and over again until they exited the tunnel and the website finally loaded. He went first to the “About” section.

_“Purrsonal Space Cat Cafe, located in the eastern part of Chicago, was opened in 2016 by Richie Tozier and his childhood friend Ben Hanscom.”_

There was a picture beneath the short paragraph showing the man Eddie had seen, Richie Tozier, next to a thicker-set man who Eddie assumed was Ben Hanscom. The other man had a short beard and a kind smile. Richie was smiling broadly, one eye closed slightly more than the other, and the light caught on his thick glasses a little. 

_“Purrsonal Space works in conjunction with PAWS Chicago to get their cats adopted out to loving, happy homes. Since their opening, Purrsonal Space has placed over 100 cats with forever families.”_

Eddie smiled to himself as he scrolled through picture after picture of Richie, Ben, and other people holding and playing with cats in the cafe. There was one of a beautiful red-headed woman sitting on the bean bag chair petting a giant black cat, smiling up at the camera. Another picture showed a couple—a man and a woman—on either side of a small white kitten, giving it a kiss. 

_“Purrsonal Space also serves a wide variety of coffee, tea, and baked goods to enjoy while you spend time with the furry friends of the cafe. Richie recommends Ben’s lavender latte.”_

Eddie’s mouth watered. That sounded delicious. 

After taking a screenshot of the hours of operation— six days a week, 9-5 Monday through Thursday, 10-7 on Fridays and Saturdays—he turned the display off and smiled out the window until he reached the right stop. He helped an older lady get her suitcase off the train, then exited and headed down the stairs to the street so he could walk the last few minutes to Bill and Mike’s.

He could hear them yelling from inside before he even got to the door, and he turned the doorknob without knocking. When he was expected over, they unlocked the door for him. He had a key, and he told them it was unsafe for them to leave their door open, but they always insisted that they only unlocked it when they figured he was close, and since they were both home and Mike was built like a brick shithouse, they’d be fine. 

He entered the apartment and called out, “Honeys! I’m home!”

“Eddie!” Mike yelled from the kitchen. “Come help me slice this bread.”

Eddie hung up his coat and made his way into the kitchen, where Bill was sitting on the edge of the counter nursing a beer and Mike was finishing up the lasagna assembly. There was a loaf of bread on the counter and Eddie pulled the bread knife from the block.

“Down the middle or in slices?” Eddie asked.

“Down the middle, I think,” Mike responded, just as Bill said, “In slices.”

“I’ll break the tie, then, and go down the middle.” Eddie began slicing as Mike and Bill continued their animated conversation.

“I’m just saying, it’s a personal preference, and mine is to say towards,” Bill said, waving his beer bottle in the air. 

Mike scoffed. “And _I’m_ saying that it’s okay to be wrong sometimes, sweetheart.”

Eddie squinted. “Are you arguing about fucking semantics again,” he said. He didn’t even bother asking it as an actual question, because he knew the answer. Freaks.

Bill laughed. “Well, yeah,” he said, taking a drink. “Mike thinks that _towards_ is too flowery. I just think it sounds better in my head and looks better on paper.”

“Well, he _is_ the published author,” Eddie began. “But...Mike’s right. It does sound a little purple.”

“Purple!” Bill shouted. “Purple! Look at you, Mr. Accounting Major, using English Major words.”

Eddie pointed the bread knife at Bill. “Hey, fuckass, I know words.”

Bill laughed. “I know, bud, I know.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Mike putting the lasagna in the oven and Eddie helping clean up the counter. Bill nursed his beer and watched, a small, soft smile on his face .

Eddie scrunched up his nose. “What’re you lookin’ at?”

Bill shrugged. “I just like having you around, is all.”

“Aw, Bill,” Eddie said, smiling, “Keep going like that and Mike’ll think you’re leaving him for me.”

“No offense, Eddie, but have you looked at my husband?”

“Not once.” Eddie responded, seriously. They stared at each other for a beat, then laughed. 

Eddie loved this. Their easy banter was always a safety net in his relationship with Bill, and it extended to Mike as well. Eddie was always worried about saying the wrong thing to someone. He was just so anxious all the time. It felt like he had bees under his skin, clamoring to get out. Dr. Andros gave him breathing exercises and mantras to repeat, but sometimes he just needed the comfort of knowing that Bill and Mike never thought he was too much.

They finished cleaning up and moved to the living room to relax while they waited for the lasagna to finish cooking. Eddie loved their living room—the sofa was big and soft, there were books covering every available surface, and the photographs lining the walls showed the lives they lived both outside of each other and together. 

His favorite photograph was from their engagement party. They’d rented out this beautiful outdoor space and set up tables. Mike’s uncle barbecued, and Bill’s cousin, a baker, prepared a variety of pies. Everyone was laughing and happy. Eddie typically got anxious in crowds—his social energy drained quickly—but he didn’t mind it so much that day. 

The picture was of Bill looking at Mike, who was talking animatedly with Bill’s mother. They were out of focus but you could tell they were laughing. The focus was on Bill, who was watching the two of them with such a tender expression that Eddie _had_ to pull out his camera and snap a picture.

It was just such a sweet picture, so full of love. Out of the hundreds of photos Eddie took that day during the beginning of a photography phase, that was his favorite. He had it printed and specially framed for their wedding. 

He was so busy gazing at the picture that he missed what Mike had said. “Huh?”

“I said, it was potluck day at work right?”

Eddie made a face. “Don’t remind me.”

Mike laughed. “Come on, it can’t be that bad _every_ month.”

“It is! It is that bad, Mike! I may not be the best cook but at least I’m not trapped in a fucking time capsule in the 1970s! And it’s the same shit every month! No one brings anything different. Gladys brings her fucking aspic, Timothy makes bland chex mix, Jonathan ignores the rules in our building about peanut allergies and brings a value size bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups. It gets worse every time.”

“How does it get worse every time if people bring the same stuff each month?” Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s how!” Eddie waved his arms for emphasis. “It gets worse because each month I, a dumbass, think someone will branch out and bring like, I don’t know, a fucking casserole, but no! It’s the same bullshit every time and I haven’t learned any better. It makes me crazy. Not to mention everyone I work with is a cock.”

“You should quit,” Bill said. He looked at Eddie. “You know this job doesn’t make you happy, and you have eno-enough money saved up to live off of for a while until you f-found something new. You bitch about potluck day every month but that’s just a coverup for what’s really bugging you.”

Eddie sighed. “I know. I fucking hate my job, dude. And I know I could do better literally anywhere else. But when I think about quitting a marching band starts playing in my head and I freak out.”

“Have you talked to Andros about it?” Mike asked. 

“A little, but not extensively,” Eddie admitted. “Right now we’re working on self-worth. I have fucking homework.”

“Boo,” Bill said. “I h-hate it when my therapist does his job.”

Eddie shoved him. “Fuck you, man. Therapy is hard.”

“I know, I know,” Bill replied, leaning into Eddie’s space. “I’m proud of you for sticking with it all this time. God, you’ve been seeing Dr. Andros for, what, almost 20 years? That’s a huge commitment. You’re amaz-amazing.”

Eddie smiled. “Thanks, Bill.”

Bill hugged Eddie from one side, and Mike grabbed onto him from the other. “That’s our boy!” Bill cried, smacking a kiss onto Eddie’s cheek.

“Ugh, gross, I don’t want to be your third, go away,” Eddie laughed. But he didn’t push them away. They were his family, and he loved them, even when they were obnoxiously loving.

They sat like that on the couch for a while, staring at the TV in silence, until the timer went off for the lasagna. Mike went to the kitchen, took the dish out of the oven, and then replaced it with the garlic bread. Eddie joined him and opened the cabinets, grabbing plates so he could set the table. As usual, Bill didn't help, but instead chose to stand at the threshold of the kitchen and watch them.

Eddie thrust some forks and knives in his direction. “Here, jackbag, contribute.”

Bill stuck out his tongue but acquiesced, taking the cutlery and setting the table. The three of them washed their hands and sat down to eat. 

As expected, the lasagna was fucking amazing. Mike was truly a kitchen god. Eddie’s relationship with food had gone from toxic to borderline sensual. He closed his eyes and savored each bite. He knew Bill and Mike were probably looking at him funny, but after the day he’d had, he didn’t care. 

It took Eddie a long time to be comfortable eating in front of people. When he first started at his firm, he wouldn’t eat lunch at all because he didn’t want anyone to see him. In the back of his mind, he was always afraid of the comments people would make because they would just remind him of his mother. Even the idea of someone asking him _what_ he was eating made him anxious. Bill got upset with him once when they had dinner one night after work and Eddie was shaking so bad he almost broke his beer bottle. Eddie had explained that his blood sugar was just low and he needed something to eat. He started drinking a protein shake in his cubicle after that, then worked up to snacks. Eventually he got an office and started eating lunch in his office with the door closed.

Now, after having worked at Flagg & Wilkes for going on 10 years, he felt braver and tended to eat his lunches in the break room while reading a book or listening to a podcast. The first week he did this, he texted Bill the whole time as a distraction. Bill spent 45 minutes sending Eddie memes to keep him from bolting. After that first week, where no one said anything to him beyond a polite “Hey Eddie,” he got more comfortable. It didn’t even bother him anymore, unless he was having a bad day.

Dr. Andros told him that his anxieties around food were a result of his mother’s controlling behavior. She controlled everything about his health, which led to her controlling what he ate. Breaking free from that cycle of abuse and control was scary, especially when it came to something as necessary as food. He wasn’t unhealthy by any means, he just had a hard time eating in front of people or letting others choose for him. Mike and Bill were the only exceptions, and it only worked if they were choosing something they already explicitly knew he enjoyed, like the lasagna, or chocolate malts.

He went on a date with a guy once, Sam something, and when they sat down at the table, Sam tried to order wine for him. Eddie stood up wordlessly, got his coat from the coat check, and left, never speaking to Sam again. He was too much of a coward to tell him why he left, so he just didn’t. He knew he looked like a complete asshole—he _was_ a complete asshole—but he was only 25 at the time and, well, a fucking idiot. By the time he got his shit together enough to be able to talk about things like that, years had passed, and it wasn’t like Eddie could look Sam up on Facebook and say, “Hey, man, remember me? Sorry I walked out on our date four years ago, my mom had Munchausen’s Syndrome By Proxy and my PTSD kicked in when you tried to get me a nice wine so I left, wanna catch up?” No thanks.

He did make a point to assert himself or to tell dates what he liked before they went out, so that if they did order for him, they got him something he essentially chose. It was progress. 

Bill, Mike and Eddie finished eating in relative silence, making only occasional comments. It was a pleasant silence, one of those quiet moments borne of extreme closeness. Bill’s mother used to say that you could tell a meal was good when everyone shut up. Leon Bridges played softly in the background, Bill and Mike held hands on top of the table, and Eddie was, for the moment, happy.

“Hey, have you guys ever heard of a cat cafe?” Eddie asked, breaking the silence.

Bill nodded. “It’s just a coffee shop where they have cats, right?”

“Yeah, and the cats are adoptable. I passed by one today on my way home.” _I passed by one and almost pressed my face into the window like a fucking creep because the guy inside was too hot._

Mike brightened. “ _Purrsonal Space,_ right? I’ve been there! My old college buddy Stan knows the owners. You remember Stan, right? He and his wife Patty were at the wedding.”

Eddie searched his mental rolodex until his brain gave him the image of a tall, curly-haired man and his tiny, smiling wife. 

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie said, tapping his chin. “He was nice. He helped me set up the ceremony space.” 

“His best friend Richie is the owner,” Mike said, reaching across the table to grab Eddie’s plate and begin cleanup. “I’ve been to the cafe a few times. It’s really nice. Cute cats.”

“You th-thinkin’ about getting a cat, Ed?” Bill asked. He raised an eyebrow. “Never really pictured you as much of a pet person.”

Eddie’s brow furrowed. “I could be a pet person! If I wanted to!” 

“Well, do you? Want to?” 

Eddie deflated. “No. I don’t know. Cats freak me out. Animals freak me out. What if I’m allergic?”

Mike scoffed from the kitchen. “Eddie, you’ve had three allergy tests in the last 15 years. You’re not allergic to cats. You’re not allergic to anything except for penicillin and cedar tree pollen and you know it.”

“But what if it’s a late-onset adult allergy,” Eddie whined, sinking down in his chair. “What if I went in and he— I mean, the cats— hated me?” Oh god. Oh fuck. He said the wrong thing.

Bill grinned. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“Hm?” Eddie batted his eyelashes. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No, no, I think you did,” Bill said. “Which _he,_ Edward?”

“Don’t fucking smile at me like that, _William,_ you look like the fucking Grinch.”

Eddie could tell Bill was making eye contact with Mike over his head. He could only imagine Mike’s matching grin. Bill’s eyes _sparkled._

“Tall? Longish dark hair? Thick glasses? Shoulders so wide you could sit on ‘em?” Mike asked in a tone that made Eddie feel all too seen.

_Boy would I like to,_ Eddie thought, and felt himself blush from the tips of his ears down to his fucking toes. Traitorous body.

Bill’s grin widened, somehow. “Oh, yeah, that’s him, Mikey.”

Mike laughed, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before coming back to the table and taking a seat. Eddie’s face was _bright_ red, and he was starting to sweat a little above his lip. 

Mike propped his head up on his elbow and blinked at Eddie. “So you were staring through the shop window?”

Eddie stammered. “I wasn’t staring! I tripped over his fucking sign, okay, and I was putting it up, and making sure nobody _else_ tripped over the stupid thing, and I saw him in the window talking to a fucking cat like a crazy person.”

“Everyone talks to cats, Eddie,” Bill said seriously. 

“Wh—no they don’t, you’re a fucking lunatic—and don’t try to make it seem like _I’m_ weird, I was just a random passerby!”

"You're awful sweaty for a random passerby," Mike said, laughing. Eddie pointed a finger at him.

"Shut!" Eddie yelled, grabbing the rest of the dishes off the table and stomping into the kitchen. "I hate you! I hate you both!"

Bill laughed, too. "C-c'mon, Eddie, you know we're j-just giving you a hard time."

Eddie deflated, a little, from the sink. "I know," he said. He rinsed the last few plates before putting them into the dishwasher. "It's just—I don't know. I _do_ feel a little like a creep, looking in the window like that."

"Nah," Mike said, shaking his head. "I don't think taking notice of someone is creepy, even if it's through a store window. I mean, you have eyes, man. You know what? You should go in and talk to him. Richie's a cool guy."

Eddie almost shattered a glass in his bare hands, he gripped it so tightly. "Absolutely not. Cats are gross, and unhygienic, and I don't want—"

"To make an ass of yourself in front of a hot guy?" Bill finished for him. 

"Well," Eddie began, intending to argue, "Yeah."

Thinking about going inside the cafe made Eddie's skin itch. He was so scared, all the fucking time. He hated it. He scrubbed furiously at the lasagna pan. He liked to do dishes when he was feeling anxious—the repetitive motions calmed him down.

Bill must have noticed the change in the way Eddie was washing the dishes, because Eddie heard the scrape of the chair as Bill got out of his seat to come join him in the kitchen. He quietly handed Eddie forks and spoons.

"I'm s-sorry, Eddie," Bill said quietly. "We were just g-giving you a hard time."

Eddie smiled over at Bill. "I know. I'm not mad."

"Just anxious?"

Eddie nodded. "Thinking about meeting people makes me anxious. I'm always worried I'll say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing, and mess up any chance I've got.”

_Then my chest gets tight and I feel like I want to peel my skin off like you'd peel a sunburn, and I want to run for six hours nonstop. Or I clean everything in my house four times. Or cry_ , Eddie thought to himself. Bill didn't need the details on his neuroses. 

They finished up the dishes and Eddie began wiping the counters down with a cloth. Bill leaned against the refrigerator and watched him carefully. 

"I m-meant what I said earlier, Eddie. I am so proud of you. And even th-though your brain likes to lie to you, you're not too much."

Eddie pursed his lips. "Aw, Bill. You're gonna make me cry."

"Don't deflect with humor while I try to tell you how much I love you!" Bill said, but they were both laughing.

By the time he finished cleaning the kitchen, Eddie felt a lot calmer. His breathing had returned to normal and he didn't feel like climbing out of his own bones anymore.

They ended up back on the couch, Eddie in the middle again, Bill on his left and Mike on his right. They fell asleep like that, the three of them curled together like a pile of, well, kittens.

Bill woke them up sometime around 3 a.m. and he and Mike went to bed. Eddie tried to head home, but Bill just shook his head and said, "Eddie, it's the middle of the night. I'll wake you up early enough for you to go home and change before work."

Eddie smiled gratefully and was out before Mike closed the bedroom door.

* * *

Friday morning saw Eddie dozing against the train window on his way home to change. It was 6:30 a.m. He had work from 8-4 on Fridays, then a session with Dr. Andros. After that, he'd probably actually heat up that leftover Chinese food and watch TV until bed. 

The day went well compared to the wet fart of the previous one, and Eddie was in good spirits when he arrived at Dr. Andros' office that afternoon. Frankie greeted him from the front desk and let him know that Dr. Andros was still with a patient but would be with him shortly. He smiled and nodded at her, then went to take a seat in the corner of the waiting room. 

He’d thought that after seeing the same therapist for 17 years, he would run out of things to talk about and work on, but Eddie found he contained multitudes. Every day was a new adventure where he got to discover what new thing would set him off. Was it seeing someone he knew from high school, or thinking he did? Was it getting the wrong thing at Starbucks? Was it a cryptic email from his boss saying they needed to "discuss an issue" but not giving any further details?

Dr. Andros had seen it all. He'd been there for Eddie through the worst of it, from the beginning of his mother's trial when he was angry and withdrawn, to the period of time where Eddie was certain he wanted to hurt himself, or someone else. Dr. Andros had even been teaching Eddie ASL over the years so that they could communicate better; even though Dr. Andros had a cochlear implant, it was still easier for him to sign.

He had considered getting a new therapist a few years ago. Not because of anything Dr. Andros did or said—he was just afraid that his doctor would be tired of him, if he wasn't already. He got so consumed by the idea that Dr. Andros secretly hated him and thought he was a lost cause that he didn't show up for three appointments. Dr. Andros ended up coming to Eddie's apartment with coffee and they sat on the stoop and talked for three hours. Eddie cried and told Dr. Andros that he was sorry, and that he was just afraid. Andros calmly talked him through it, explaining that if he had any desire to sever their patient-doctor relationship for _any_ reason, he'd have told Eddie, and that he understood his fears.

That's what most of his issues boiled down to: fear. He grew up afraid of what Sonia would do to him or say to him, and once she was out of the picture he became afraid of himself. He was always so worried about something, even if it was a trivial problem. He worried about _everything_. 

Eddie was so consumed by his dumb brain that he didn't even hear Frankie call his name. She had to leave the desk to come get him.

"Mr. Kaspbrak?" Frankie asked, touching his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Eddie jumped. "Oh! God, Frankie, I'm sorry, I was zoned out."

Frankie smiled at him, tucking her auburn curls behind her ear. "It's alright. Dr. Andros is ready for you."

Eddie nodded and made his way to the back hallway, passing each door until he reached the last office on the left.

He pushed the door open and saw Dr. Andros sitting at his desk, mouthing to himself as he took down some notes. He looked up and smiled when he saw Eddie.

"Eddie!" Dr. Andros said happily. He gestured to the various seating options around the room. "Have a seat. Let me finish this and I'll join you wherever."

Eddie chose the old, brown leather couch, cracked and softened from use. He curled up against the arm and watched Dr. Andros finish his notes and put them away in a file folder in the cabinet. The doctor stood from his desk and joined Eddie on the couch.

"Have you started on your list yet?" He asked.

"Getting right to it, huh, doc?" Eddie responded. He sighed. "No, not really, to be honest. Every time I sit down and pull out my notebook, I get freaked out."

Dr. Andros nodded. "Getting started is the hardest part. What freaks you out about it?"

"I can think of things that are objectively good about me," Eddie began, drawing his knees to his chest like he did when he was a kid. "Like, I know I'm good at baking. I'm a nice person. But just because I know those things to be true doesn't mean I feel them? And then even if I come up with a list of things I like about myself, asking friends to contribute feels weird, like I'm fishing for compliments."

"But wouldn't your friends understand that this wasn't fishing, but part of your therapy? They'd be willing to help, yes?"

"Yeah. But—" Eddie raked a hand through his hair. "I know that _they_ believe the things they say. But I can't help feeling like they're wrong."

Dr. Andros smiled a little, curling his fist and signing _yes_. "That's the hurdle you have to overcome. You can't control what other people believe, Eddie, as much as you might want to. You especially can't control what people think about you, good or bad. Tell me: Why do you think that your friends are wrong when they compliment you?"

Eddie squirmed. He didn't really know how to explain it. "I don't know. Like, Bill told me once that I was handsome. I don't think he was lying to me. I think _he_ thinks that. I just don't agree."

"Why not?"

"I don't know!" Eddie tightened his grip on his legs. "I don't know. I just don't know how to believe it. I can’t explain."

"You know," Dr. Andros said, jotting something down in his notebook, "Sometimes if you don't have a good reasoning behind a belief, it's not a good belief." He looked up at Eddie. "Your mom did a lot of damage by telling you that you were weak and frail and not healthy enough to do things. I believe that you internalized this and applied it to everything about yourself. You know, logically, that you _are_ a healthy person. You are not weak and frail. You exercise regularly, you eat right, and you see your doctor twice a year. Since you no longer have that to lean on, you've directed this to your personality and your appearance. You're still letting Sonia control the narrative."

Eddie's chest felt tight. He hated talking about his mother during sessions. And deep down he knew Dr. Andros was right, about all of it. It was just so hard to talk about.

"I guess I just feel like...Like I'm alone and it's because she was right. Sometimes. I can hear her voice in my head saying _Eddiebear, no one can love you like I can_ , and that's why I live by myself when all my friends are married. I feel like I'm missing out on something, and I can't decide if it's her fault or mine."

Dr. Andros almost looked angry. "Eddie, look at me."

Eddie looked at his therapist. His lip quivered a little.

"Nothing that has happened to you was your fault."

Eddie blinked back tears. "I—"

Dr. Andros touched his first two fingers to his thumb. _No_ . "I know that it's easier said than done, but you have to understand that the things your mother did and the effects those choices had on you are _not because of you_. They were because of her. And that's not your fault. Your feelings of loneliness, of being left behind, are completely understandable and valid. But they are not because of anything you did, or are."

"Okay," Eddie said quietly, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. "I know you're right. I'm trying to believe it."

Dr. Andros patted Eddie's knee. "I know you are, Eddie. And it takes time. Hell, it's a work 17 years in progress, right?"

Eddie smiled wetly. "Yeah."

"Have you considered a pet?" Dr. Andros asked. Eddie's eyes widened.

"Well, I—I, uh—" _Spit it out, Kaspbrak, he's your therapist_ , Eddie thought. "I passed by a cat cafe? Yesterday?"

"Oh? Can you explain what that is?"

"It's like, a coffee shop but they have cats there you can adopt. So you can have coffee or tea and play with cats. And maybe adopt one?" Eddie twiddled his thumbs. 

"Did you go in?"

Eddie barked out a laugh. "No! No. They were closed. And also I'm afraid." 

"Afraid of what? The cats?"

_Afraid of the large handsome man. Afraid of accidentally telling the large handsome man that he is, in fact, large and handsome. Afraid of touching his shoulders. Afraid of being bitten by a cat and then jumping and grabbing onto his shoulders. Shoulders. Shoulders._

"Y-yeah. The cats."

"A cat would be a great starter pet for you, I think," Dr. Andros began. He was smiling as he took notes. "They're fairly self-sufficient and can handle being at home all day while you're at work, so you wouldn't have to worry about taking it out like you would a dog. Enough playtime at home, and they get enough exercise."

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "You've been thinking about this."

His therapist grinned. _Grinned_. "Maybe. After this many years, I can tell when you're in a slump, Eddie. I know you've been feeling lonely."

"I don't know how to—I don't know how to interact with animals. My mom never let me have anything, not even a goldfish. She was afraid I'd be allergic to the fish flakes. I use to fucking name the birds in the backyard because it was the closest thing I could get to a pet. God, that’s sad."

"Hmm," Dr. Andros hummed, tapping his pen on his notebook. "Well, since this is a cafe where you just spend time with cats, why not try going in for a little bit? Get a cup of coffee, bring a book, and just sit there for a while? If it goes alright, go back again and try interacting with a cat or two. Do you think you could handle that?”

"I mean...I guess so. Yeah." Eddie took a deep breath. "Yeah, I think I can do that."

"Excellent!" Dr. Andros looked at his watch and grimaced. "Well, that's our time for today, Eddie. What are you going to work on this week before I see you again?"

Eddie held up two fingers. "Start my list, go to the cat cafe." 

Dr. Andros nodded. "Great. I'm excited to hear about both next Friday."

Eddie smiled at the older man, bringing his hand flat against his chin and extending it outwards. _Thank you_. 

Dr. Andros smiled back and circled a thumbs-up motion before tapping his wrist with his index finger. _Anytime_.

Even though he was a little emotionally exhausted from therapy, Eddie was in a good mood as he left. He smiled and waved at Frankie on his way out and decided to walk home instead of taking the train. He put in his headphones and shuffled his music, skipping through until he landed on an upbeat Carly Rae Jepsen song. 

He bobbed his head as he walked and didn't really pay attention to where his feet were taking him until he saw a familiar pink-and-chalkboard sandwich board in front of him, once again on its side. 

He'd unconsciously walked right back to _Purrsonal Space_.

"I swear to fucking god, they need to hammer this sign to the ground," he mumbled as he righted the board. "What the fuck is wrong with these people."

This time, the cafe was open—it was only 5:30—and there were people inside. A young couple sat in one corner, cats on each of their laps, and they typed away at their laptops. The pretty redheaded woman he remembered from the website was sitting at the bar talking to the other owner, Ben, who was making drinks and smiling. Richie was at the cash register taking money from a freckled teenage girl with curly hair and glasses.

There were people there. Too many people for Eddie's usual comfort. 

But in a moment of bravery, Eddie reached for the door and pulled.


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie does something brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this took literally almost a month to post! being a teacher is an absolute time suck. i hope you like it!
> 
> thank you to ali for beta-ing this chapter!

The first thing Eddie noticed about Purrsonal Space was the noise.

It was almost too much. Between the sounds of people talking, cats meowing, coffee machines clicking and whirring, Eddie didn’t know where to look or what to do. So he just stood there stock-still in the doorway, one hand still white-knuckling the doorknob like he was ready to bolt. He could hear Weird Al Yankovic playing. What the fuck kind of coffee shop plays Weird Al?

The curly-haired girl from the register was on her way out, and Eddie was in her way, but she smiled kindly up at him and said, “Excuse me _._ ”

Eddie blushed. “Um, yeah,” he began. He let go of the door and stepped aside. “Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” the girl said brightly. She brushed past him. “Have a great day!”

“Thanks,” Eddie said nervously. He watched her bounce out the door and down the sidewalk. 

One human interaction was enough, wasn’t it? He could go home now? Dr. Andros didn’t even tell him he needed to go in _that day,_ he didn’t have to stay. But he was already there. He should stay. It would be weird if he walked in and back out immediately, right? 

He took a breath and made his way to the counter, a few stools down from the redheaded woman who was talking to Ben Hanscom. He chewed on his lip as he eyed the menu in order to have something to do with both his mind and his body. His leg bounced.

He almost crawled under the bar when he saw Ben coming over to him. _Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, don’t fucking perceive me, dude,_ Eddie thought desperately, but it was too late. Ben Hanscom’s 40-watt smile was directed at him.

“Hi! Welcome to Purrsonal Space! My name is Ben, what can I getcha?” 

_Why is this place run by dreamboats,_ Eddie thought. _This just isn’t fair._

“Uh, I—I don’t—I don’t know,” Eddie stammered. His heart was beating too fast. His palms were starting to sweat. Fuck, why was he such a stupid piece of shit who couldn’t even answer a simple question without freaking out? _What the fuck is wrong with you, Kaspbrak?_

Ben’s smile became softer, more understanding. “First time in?”

“Is it that obvious?” 

Ben laughed. “Yeah. Sorry, man. You look like a deer in headlights. But that’s ok! I’m happy to be your first new friend here. Say, you like lavender?”

“Say yes,” the woman next to him said. “You won’t regret it.”

Eddie’s heart leapt into his throat at that. He wanted to either scream at the woman or run out the door. _Don’t fucking tell me what to say,_ he thought viciously, and he closed his eyes for a moment to clear the image of his mother from his mind. _She’s just trying to be nice. Don’t rip her head off just because you have issues, dude._

“Yes?” Eddie ultimately answered. He fought down the urge to bark back or walk away, because he’d have said yes anyway. It wouldn’t have been fair to Ben or to the woman if he threw a fit over a simple suggestion.

“Excellent! One lavender latte, coming right up. Thanks, Bev!” he winked at the woman and went to work, humming along with whatever nonsense song was playing over the speakers.

Eddie watched in silence, curling into himself a little. Everything was fine. He was fine. He’d talked to three (three!) people within a span of five minutes, and he hadn’t spontaneously combusted. He could do this. 

He tapped his hands against his thighs as he looked around. When he’d imagined his experience in the cafe, he’d pictured being immediately set upon by a horde of cats, all meowing and climbing up on him like he saw in videos. But the animals were giving him a wide berth. 

He was a little insulted.

“Dude. Your vibes are _rancid,_ ” a voice said. 

“Fucking—excuse me?” Eddie clipped back, looking up and freezing when he realized the voice belonged to Richie Tozier. He opened and closed his mouth once, twice, three times, saying nothing.

“Your vibes,” Richie said, waving his arms in Eddie’s general direction. “The cats are avoiding you because they can tell you’re nervous as fuck. If you chill out some, they’ll come to you.”

“I can’t,” Eddie responded immediately before adding, “I don’t really know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Richie grinned, eyes flicking as he looked Eddie up and down. “First timer! I’m Richie Tozier, the owner. Nice to meetcha…?”

“Eddie,” he replied with feigned confidence, taking the hand Richie extended and giving it a shake. 

“So, Eduardo—”

“Not my name.”

“—Eddie, what brings you to my humble sanctuary today?” Richie spread his arms wide, knocking over a bag of coffee beans that were sitting on the counter. He went to pick them up and ended up knocking over _more_ bags of coffee beans. It made Eddie relax. At least he wasn’t the only idiot in the room.

The woman—Bev, Ben had called her—laughed loudly as Richie cleaned up his mess.

“You’re a fucking moron,” she called over the counter.

“Eat my ass, Marsh!” came Richie’s response from the floor.

It was quiet for a moment as Richie cleaned up. Meanwhile, Eddie connected a few dots.

“Marsh. Like, Beverly Marsh, the designer?” he asked, turning to face her.

“The one and only!” she responded, smiling. “You said your name’s Eddie?”

He nodded and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I own, like, six of your suits.”

She whistled. “You must have some job.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t really...do much, so I have the extra.”

“Hey! No! Stop stealing my new friend!” Richie yelled, smacking his hands on the counter to get their attention. “You already took Ben and, like, married him. The Spaghetti Man is mine.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?” Eddie said. He squinted up at Richie. “Are you allergic to using peoples’ actual names?”

“Only yours,” Richie said, winking. Eddie blushed and hoped Richie didn’t notice.

"That's not how allergies work."

"You a doctor, Eddie?" Richie cooed. He leaned over the bar to prop his head up on his elbows. He wiggled his eyebrows. 

Eddie didn't know why he was attracted to this man. He was terrible. 

"No." 

Richie pouted. "You gotta be some kinda professor, then, bein' so smart."

"I don't think you have to be _smart_ to know that that's not how allergies work." He looked to Beverly for support. 

She nodded. "I think he just called you stupid, Rich. I'm inclined to agree."

Richie opened his mouth to object, or maybe bite back, but Ben interrupted by placing a steaming white mug in front of Eddie. "Here's your lavender latte, Eddie!"

Ben and Beverly resumed their conversation from earlier. Richie turned away to help a customer at the counter.

He wrapped his hands around the mug and ignored the slight burn. Even though he felt a little better—bantering with Richie and Beverly was surprisingly easy, considering he’d only known them for a few minutes—he was still really anxious. Richie had said that his nervous energy would drive the cats away, but he couldn't fucking help it, he was _walking nervous energy_. 

He didn't know how to pet a cat right. Is there a right way to pet a fucking cat? What if one of the cats bit him? What if he scared one and it got hurt trying to get away? What if all the other people in the cafe watched him try to get a cat to let him pet it and then he fucked it up and he looked like a dumb piece of shit idiot who can't interact with a small furry animal?

"You tryin’ to move that latte with your mind?"

Richie's voice was right next to him. Eddie jumped a little. 

"Oh! Sorry, dude," Richie laughed, "I guess you were really focusing on that telepathy."

Eddie frowned. "You mean telekinesis."

"I’ve heard it both ways." Richie shrugged. He glanced sidelong at Eddie. "You okay, man?" 

"I—" _Should I lie?_ Eddie thought. _Pretend like I know what I'm doing? Say I'm just having a bad day?_ No. _I'm supposed to be brave today._ "I've never really been around cats before? I'm afraid to fuck it up."

"Oh, is that all? Dude, we get people in here who are straight up terrified of cats. I even had a guy throw up once. Right outside the door. He got to the door, reached out to grab the handle, and just upchucked his lunch."

Eddie made a face. "That's fucking disgusting."

Richie was laughing. "I know, right? He didn't even apologize or anythin'. Just threw up and ran away." He sighed. "I wonder if he's okay."

Richie had a slight drawl, Eddie noticed. His vowels were kind of long and twangy, and he left the ends off of some of his words.

"Anyway," Richie continued. He reached over the counter to grab a bottle of water. "It's okay to be nervous, dude. If you want, I can give you some tips? Introduce you to some of the cats?"

Eddie's heart was _pounding_. He stared at his mug. "Yeah, I, uh, okay. Yeah. That'd be nice."

Richie's smile was so bright it almost hurt when Eddie looked up at him. "Great! I'm gonna run to the restroom real quick. You finish your drink. When I get back I'll take you around!"

Eddie nodded and sipped at his latte. It wasn't quite warm anymore, but it was still delicious. He closed his eyes and breathed in the coffee and lavender smells and tried to slow his breathing. He'd spent the last 24 hours fixating on this guy and now he was talking to him and he was going to show him around his cafe and oh god what if he said something rude to Richie during their tour and Richie kicked him out?

"Stop fucking panicking, dipshit" Eddie whispered to himself. He didn't realize he'd said it aloud. He peeked over at Beverly to see if she'd heard him. 

She hadn't; she was holding hands with Ben over the counter. He noticed that they were wearing matching silver wedding bands. Beverly also had a beautiful diamond and pearl ring adjoining hers. So they're married. Eddie looked at their joined hands and felt a twinge of sadness deep in his chest; a physical ache to match the emotional pain he felt when he was truly, deeply lonely.

 _I wonder if I'll ever be touched like that_ , Eddie thought. _I'd like to_.

Eddie had spent a long time thinking that he'd end up alone in the end. When he was in his 20s he spent every day bemoaning his solitude to Bill, and then later to both Bill _and_ Mike. As he got older he realized that it was probably for the best that he wasn't in a relationship all those years. Everything with his mom was still too fresh, then, and he wasn't in a stable place emotionally. He'd have been a terrible significant other, volatile and selfish. He almost failed his first semester of college because he was so depressed he didn’t want to leave his apartment. He could barely function on his own—why did he think he should have been asked to be part of a healthy partnership?

Now, though, he was older, and more stable than he was before. He wasn't perfect—he'd never be perfect, or even "healed"—but he could regulate his own emotions for the most part and wouldn't drag anyone down. He got up every morning and went to work. He didn’t take depression naps as often anymore. He didn't need anyone to heal him. Dr. Andros always told him that someone with trauma shouldn’t look for a fixer. They should look for a partner who understood that they had certain boundaries and needs that other people might not have, and that it was okay to need that.

It was just hard. He tried online dating, but he kept going through a cycle of excitement to disappointment to pure rage and would delete and reinstall the apps over and over again. If he got matches, they were always aggressive and forward. He wasn’t a prude by any means, but, hell, he was a fucking person who didn’t want to be automatically called _sexy._

He went from women only, to men and women, to just men. He talked to a few people but nothing seemed to click. He hadn't been on a real date in, like, two years. So there he sat, 34 and alone, drinking a latte at a coffee shop full of cats next to a beautiful, happily married couple, and mooning over someone he just met.

He finished his drink and imagined holding hands over a coffee shop bar with someone. If that someone had floppy hair, thick glasses, and broad shoulders—well. No one had to know.

"You ready?" Richie asked from behind him. This time, Eddie didn't jump. 

"As ready as I'll ever be," he said. He stood up and straightened his clothes. He looked up at Riche, whose eyes were boring into him. "What?"

Richie's cheeks flushed. "Oh. Nothin'. C'mon, let's go!"

Eddie stared at the back of Richie’s head as they walked across the cafe. _Was he…?_

Eddie decided to focus instead on Richie’s running commentary while he led him over to one of the cat trees in the back corner, where a large black cat slept curled up on the top section.

"So with every new group of cats, I come up with a new naming theme. Last round was all savory foods, so with this group of kittos—haha, get it?—I decided to do sweet foods and desserts. This is Pudding. He is large and he is beautiful."

Pudding made a soft mrrp at the sound of his name and opened his eyes. They were a beautiful shade of green.

Richie's voice got soft. "Oh good morning bud! Did you have a good nap? This is my friend Eddie. Don't worry, he's nice." He smiled over at Eddie. "Give him a pet!"

Eddie began to reach out, but stopped halfway. "I don't know, Richie," he said quietly. "What if I...What if I do it wrong?" He felt like such a loser saying that to someone out loud. But he knew, from all those years of therapy, that his feelings were valid, no matter how embarrassing they might be. He hoped Richie would understand.

Richie raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Instead, he reached over and ran his hand lightly along Pudding's back. Pudding stood up and stretched before sitting back on his hind legs and looking at the two of them.

"Do it just like that."

Eddie took a deep breath and copied Richie's movements. Pudding's fur was soft and sleek. He didn’t hiss, yowl, or bite. He just closed his eyes slowly, blinking at Eddie, and settled down, tucking his front paws underneath him.

“Oh,” Eddie whispered. “Hi, Pudding.”

“Hey! So when cats blink slowly like that, it means they trust you!” 

Eddie turned to Richie and _beamed;_ he was so excited to hear that Pudding trusted him. His first cat interaction, and the cat _trusted_ him. 

Richie blinked and Eddie swore he saw his cheeks turn a little pink. 

“So he likes me?” Eddie asked excitedly.

“Yeah, man,” Richie responded. He leaned a little closer to Eddie and reached past him to pet Pudding’s back. Eddie could hear the cat begin to purr. 

“I wasn’t lying, earlier. I’ve never pet a cat before.” He chuckled a little. “I guess I hyped it up in my mind to be a more involved process than it really is.”

“You’re a natural, Eds,” Richie said from somewhere next to Eddie’s ear. 

_Do not,_ Eddie thought, _pop a fucking boner in a public place. You will end up on a list somewhere and will never be allowed near this place again and you’ll die._

“How many names are you going to go through until you actually use my real one?” Eddie said instead of what he _wanted_ to say which was “please rearrange my guts”. 

“Oh, I just got started,” Richie said. He stepped back and clapped his hands together. “Wanna meet more cats?”

Eddie thought, for a moment, that he could stay in that cafe forever. But he could still feel the anxiety bees buzzing under his skin, and he wanted to have time to decompress after work, and therapy, and _this._

“Maybe next time.” Eddie smiled up at Richie, because he knew from experience that sometimes that meant _never again._ But he meant it. He wanted to come back to _Purrsonal Space_ again, and again, and again. And unless he was crazy, or more of an idiot than he felt like he was on a regular basis, he got the impression that Richie might want him to come back too. 

_I’ve only known this man for 20 minutes and I’m already fucking gone. This is so stupid. Bill’s gonna make fun of me until the day I die, because I’m going to tell him. I tell him everything. Why do I tell him everything? Why can’t I have one secret just for me?_

_Because you’re a dumb idiot baby, that’s why,_ Eddie answered himself. _And you’re codependent._

“I had a long day,” he continued, “so I think I’m gonna just go home and relax. But I’d like to come back soon.”

Richie blinked down at him, then smiled. It was a shy, almost unsure smile, different from the easy grins he’d been throwing at him the whole time he’d been inside. 

“You wanna come in tomorrow morning? If you’re not busy? There’s usually no one here for the first hour or so on Saturdays.” He shrugged. “Y’know, so you don’t have to worry about other people being around, and you can meet more of the cats.”

God, that was considerate as hell. What the fuck.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.” Eddie returned Richie’s tentative smile and wandered back to the counter to grab his work bag. He caught Ben’s eye. “Thank you for the latte, Mr. Hanscom, it was delicious.”

“Oh! Ben, please,” Ben replied. He was taking off his apron. 

“It was great to meet you, Eddie!” Bev said, waving. “I hope you come back soon!”

“He’ll be back in the morning!” Richie said just as Eddie was opening his mouth to respond. “He can’t stay away from me.”

“I’m not coming back for you, I’m coming back for Pudding,” Eddie shot back. “Pudding has manners. Pudding would remember my name, I bet.”

Richie clapped a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Spaghetti.”

Eddie snorted and shifted his bag on his shoulder. “Oh, shit,” he said suddenly. “I need to pay for my coffee.”

Richie waved his hands. “Nah. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I— “

Richie held up his finger. “Nope! No payment from new friends.”

_Friends._

“Well, thanks, Richie,” Eddie said. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Bright and early, Eddie baby!” Richie called. Eddie was so grateful that he’d already turned away so that no one could see the brilliant blush coloring his cheeks.

If Eddie turned around and looked back through the window to see Richie still in the same spot, grinning stupidly at him through the glass—no he didn’t.

* * *

The thing about anxiety is that it doesn’t always follow rules, or patterns. You could have the worst day of your life and not feel any of the skin-crawling, hair-ripping anxiety. Or you could have a pretty good day, where you do something new and exciting, and hours later you’re gripping the edge of your kitchen counter feeling like your life is over and your body is rebelling against you and you want to scream, or run, or both. 

Which is where Eddie found himself hours after leaving the cafe, pressing _call_ on Bill’s number and trying to remember how to fucking breathe. Inhale for five. Hold for five. Exhale for five. Repeat. Listen to the phone ring. Inhale for five. Hold for fi— 

“Heyo!”

“Do you ever feel like Mola Ram is about to rip your heart out of your chest, kalima-style?”

“Eddie, don’t make Indiana Jones references that you know Bill won’t understand,” Mike’s voice was tinny over the phone. Eddie could hear Bill laugh. 

“We’re not talking about Bill’s bad taste in movies, we’re talking about how I am _definitely_ dying. This is it. Please play Silent Lucidity at my funeral.”

Eddie could _feel_ Bill’s eyebrows wrinkle. “Queensryche only comes up when you’re feeling r-really bad.”

“And he’s a winner, folks! Tell him what he’s got!” Eddie’s laughter was manic. He paced the perimeter of his kitchen, right hand clutching the phone, left hand rapidly tapping against his thigh.

“Did something happen?” Mike asked.

“No? Yes? I don’t know.” Eddie stopped to lean against the counter. He put his phone down and ran his hands over his face. “I had therapy. I went to the cat cafe. I met Richie? It was fine. I pet a cat.”

“Back up to the part where you went to the cat cafe,” Bill said. 

“I talked to Dr. Andros about how I considered getting a cat maybe and he said it was a good idea and then he said maybe I could go in there and just sit in the corner and read a book or something just to observe and then go back and maybe try to pet a cat but then I went in and I met Ben Hanscom and did you know he’s married to Beverly Marsh the designer?” Eddie rambled when he was anxious. Which was always. He rambled a lot. He was either monosyllabic or talking a mile a minute; there was no in between. “Then I met Richie, and he took me over to touch Pudding—”

“To touch what now?” Bill interrupted.

“Pudding, the cat, keep up,” Eddie continued, hands shaking. “So I pet Pudding and he was soft and nice and he trusted me? And then Richie said I could come back tomorrow morning when there’s less people so I can be more comfortable because I told him I’d never pet a cat before and he is. Very nice. And his shoulders? Wow. I also think he might have checked me out but I’m not sure. He also can’t say my name. I think I want to kill him. But also marry him? I don’t know. I can’t feel my teeth anymore.”

“Eddie,” Mike said, concerned. “Take a breath. Do you have nutella? Or are you out?”

Eddie looked across the kitchen, where the jar of Nutella sat in its usual place. He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and went to grab the jar. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Good. Eat a big spoonful for me, okay?”

“Mm-hm.” He opened the jar, stuck the spoon in, and pulled out a heaping spoonful of delicious, chocolatey, hazelnutty goodness. He stuck the spoon in his mouth and ate. 

Dr. Andros told him years ago that distracting your senses with something like peanut butter would help bring him down from a panic attack. He hated peanut butter, so he opted for Nutella instead. If he was out, he’d stick an ice cube in his mouth. The cold almost-burn shocked his brain into stopping the panic. The Nutella just tasted better.

A minute or so passed by while he ate, and he listened to Bill and Mike whispering over the phone. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but it was probably about him. He only called when he was feeling particularly shitty, because he didn’t want to feel like a burden.

“I think I’m calmer, now,” he said quietly. 

“G-good, I’m glad,” Bill said. “Did the N-nutella help?”

Eddie nodded before realizing Bill wouldn’t be able to see it. “Yeah. I think I just got, I don’t know, overwhelmed by today. Had a hard conversation with Dr. Andros, then the cafe after that. It was just a lot. I also feel, I don’t know. Guilty? I guess. Dr. Andros told me to go in stages, and I just walked right in and made nice with the owners. Maybe it was too much.”

“I mean,” Mike began, “There’s nothing you can do about that now. Do you regret meeting Richie?”

“No!” Eddie said quickly. He closed the jar of Nutella. “No. He was really nice. And understanding. I just hate feeling like I did things the wrong way.”

“I know, but remember that Dr. Andros was probably just giving you a suggestion, not instructions. You felt alright enough to go in at the time, so you were. I don’t think your therapist is gonna be mad at you for being braver than you thought you could be.”

“Mike, why don’t you write a self-help book for anxious losers like me?” Eddie said, laughing.

“I’m not the writer in this family and you know it.”

“And I sh-shouldn’t give advice to anyone,” Bill called.

Eddie laughed. He sank to the kitchen floor and leaned his back against the cabinet. He was always too hard on himself, he knew—all of the fears that he lived with daily liked to whisper in his ear that he was too much, he was too needy, he was a burden. He usually listened to them. Sometimes, though, he had these moments of clarity where he thought about how much Bill and Mike loved him. He was their family. And family was always there for you when you needed them, even if it felt like it was too much sometimes.

“S-so, Pudding, huh?” Bill asked after a few minutes’ silence. 

“All the cats right now have names like sweet foods,” Eddie responded. “That’s what Richie told me. I only met Pudding, though. He’s this huge black cat. He did this weird slow blink thing at me and Richie said that means he trusts me.” 

He felt himself smile at the memory.

“You said he invited you to come back tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I told him a little bit—I told him I had never been around animals or anything before. He could tell I was fuckin’ nervous. Said that it’s usually slower on Saturday mornings and I would maybe be more comfortable. It was really nice of him.”

Mike made a _mm-hmm_ noise over the phone. “Real nice.”

Eddie blushed. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘ _real nice_ ’, Michael?”

“I mean,” Mike began, and his voice got closer—Eddie assumed that Mike had taken the phone from Bill, “from what I know of Richie, that’s not really his style. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice dude, but he typically doesn’t extend...personal invitations. He also doesn’t go to the cafe on Saturday mornings. He usually goes to brunch with Patty and Stan.”

Eddie's cheeks were going to burn right off his body, he was blushing so hard. Richie didn't even _go_ to the cafe on Saturdays? He was going to come in just for Eddie? Why?

"I don't get it," Eddie admitted. "Why would he offer to do that for me?"

"Eddie. C'mon." Bill sounded exasperated. "You're a d-dumbass but you're not _that_ much of a dumbass. You said you thought he ch-checked you out. Then he said he would come in on his day off just to help you be more comfortable? Use your last few b-braincells and connect the dots."

"I'm not connecting shit," Eddie replied automatically.

"You're connecting them!" Bill yelled.

"You watch too much Buzzfeed Unsolved."

"I can't h-help it, Eddie, Shane Madej just gets me in a way M-mike can't."

Eddie got up off the kitchen floor and made his way to his bedroom to get ready for bed. "It's still wild to me that you write all these horror novels and don't believe in ghosts."

"They don’t exist!" Bill yelled at the same time that Mike called "Ghosts are real!" from a distance.

Eddie shook his head. Weirdos.

"Go b-brush your teeth, Mike! And don't change the subject, Eddie," Bill continued. "It's obvious he l-likes you. Or is at least interested. And y-you're clearly interested in him. Go to Purrsonal Space tomorrow and see what happens."

Eddie put the phone on speaker and changed into his sweatpants. He needed a moment to think, and Bill waited patiently for him to answer.

"I guess," Eddie began, "I just—I don't know, Bill. It's hard. I don't know how to be with people. I get too in my head. I wish I was someone else sometimes."

"Well, you're not. You're Eddie Kaspbrak. You're my brother. You're fine the w-way you are, Eddie. I know it's hard to feel like it s-sometimes. But there's nothing w-wrong with who you are. Your history doesn’t get to d-dictate who you are."

Eddie sat down on the edge of his bed and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. 

"I want to say you're right, Bill, I do. I know you believe it. I just...can't. Not yet."

Bill's sigh spoke volumes. They'd had this conversation before, many times.

"I know, Eddie. B-but you're working on it, yeah?"

"Yeah." Eddie's voice was small. He felt small.

"That's m-more than most people. One d-day you'll be able to see you the w-way we do."

"I love you, Bill," Eddie said. He meant it. Sometimes he felt like he loved Bill more than anything, thought it was overbearing and weird, but Bill was right; he was his brother.

"I love you t-too, Eddie. Are you f-feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I think I'm okay now. Just tired."

"G-get some sleep. Text me t-tomorrow after you leave the cafe and tell me how Richie's mouth tastes."

Eddie almost threw his phone across the room. "Man, FUCK YOU!"

"Goodnight Eddie!" Bill cackled as he hung up the phone.

Eddie shook his head as he plugged his phone in and headed to the bathroom to wash up for bed. Tomorrow would be an exhausting day. 

He laid in bed for hours that night, letting the minutes tick by while he stared at the ceiling and panicked. This was worse than before he actually went into the cafe. Before, he didn't have anything to lose. 

Now, though—he could picture himself saying something stupid and the light leaving Richie's blue eyes, could see Richie asking him to leave and not return. He could imagine accidentally hurting a cat and never being able to step foot in there again.

 _Stop spiraling_ , he thought. _Three good things that could happen. Name them._

One. He could make some new friends. He needed more friends.

Two. He could bond with a cat and end up adopting one, thus improving the quality of his life immensely.

Three. He could—they could—no.

Three. 

Three.

_Three._

Maybe he could fall in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can be found @bigtextozier on twitter, and there's a playlist! 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/75gC1hcOWUhika4lCWTQkP?si=55cXlGtjTyq-24u8EHqRsA

**Author's Note:**

> i can be found @bigtextozier on Twitter!


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